


The Lost One

by Smutnug



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: (sort of), Blindfolds, Cunnilingus, Dark Solas, Dirty Talk, F/M, Fade Sex, Fade stalking, Foursome - F/M/M/M, Help, How much smut is too much smut, Jealousy, Porn, Rape/Non-con Elements, Somnophilia, Torture, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-06
Updated: 2017-08-13
Packaged: 2018-12-11 21:00:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11722461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Smutnug/pseuds/Smutnug
Summary: Please observe the tags! Solas/Fen'Harel takes advantage of the unconscious Lavellan. Canon divergence in which Solas is not a nice elf.





	1. The Prisoner

**Author's Note:**

> Elven from Project Elvhen by FenXharel

It’s the middle of the night when he hears her, already half-hard when the sound drags him from the Fade. He rises silently from his own small cot. Is she finally awake?

But no. The prisoner’s eyes are shut, her pupils darting around madly behind closed lids. She thrashes and moans, the plaintive sound that first caught his attention and once more it sends a rush of blood to his groin.

Throughout the day there are guards posted by the tiny cell beneath the Chantry, ever vigilant. He's not sure what they fear - she's been unconscious for days, and her thin wrist is shackled to the wall next to her pallet. Then again, if they suspect this waif of a girl of destroying the Conclave and every soul inside, who knows what else they believe her capable of?

By night it's just Solas.

He scrawls a series of notes. Fevered, restless. Does he describe the prisoner, or himself? She moves as if to roll over, held tight by the iron cuff. Her hips shift restlessly and he stifles a moan of his own.

The mark. It continues to spread, each flare casting a green light over her delicate features. When it does she cries out softly.

His mark. He has marked her, her cries and moans, _his,_ and they take him back to a different time. An ancient time when freed slaves would writhe beneath his cock, crying his name, _Fen’Harel,_ in ecstasy and awe. He freed them from their markings, and when gratitude brought them to his bed he would mark them in his own way with teeth and nails and raw purple welts, painting their willing bodies with his seed. A small gift in exchange for freedom.

How bitter a realisation, to find that these modern elves bear those same slave brands as a mark of pride.

She's similarly marked, this prisoner, with the stylised horns of Ghilan'nain. Mother of Halla, guider of the lost. He sweeps back pale strands of sweat-dampened hair, tracing the lines of her vallaslin with revulsion and growing arousal. How beautiful she would be without them, that pale skin unmarred, those pink lips rounded in a soundless scream as he thrust home inside her.

Just then she moans again and he jerks his hand away. Pulse, rapid, he scrawls. Breathing, irregular. His too, it echoes loud in the empty dungeons.

It has been too long. He has been solitary since he awoke, spending only enough time amongst the Dalish to deem them unworthy. To think that they looked down on him for his bare face! Those few who offered to share his bed, no doubt hoping for a mage babe in their belly, he turned down with contempt masquerading as cool politeness.

This one, though...marked for him, pulsing with his magic. The first of her clan, no doubt she has tales aplenty to tell of Fen'Harel the traitor, Fen'Harel the trickster. He leans in and breathes close to her neck, an earthy smell of rain-soaked grass, tree bark and pine needles. She smells of the woods. _Careful, da’len,_ he thinks. _The Dread Wolf has caught your scent._ And her taste, the pointed tip of his tongue flickering just once against her fevered skin.

Trying to sleep is futile - the insistent pulsing of his cock demands release. He could retreat back to the distance of his cot, stroke himself to completion with her low moans ringing in his ears. And yet…

It is maddening, the way her body softly arches, her small breasts heaving beneath the linen tunic they have dressed her in. The blanket he tucked her under last night has ridden down to her navel and from there it can hardly be wrong to ease it down to her waist. Then to slide the tunic up under her armpits, baring her fevered skin to his hungry gaze. If his hand lingers on her breast it is only to feel the rise and fall of her breathing. Then the mark, his mark, flares and she gasps, arching into his touch.

It's a sign. She is his destiny, his due. He leans over her and tastes the beads of sweat between her breasts. Closes his lips over a rosy nipple and feels the flesh pebble beneath his tongue.

He couldn't say at what point he freed his cock from the confines of his clothing, only that soon he's bent forwards over the straw pallet, a sticky mess coating his hand.

The seductress is gone, once again she's an unconscious slip of a girl, body wracked with pain and fever. And he, who should have more self-control...shaking, he busies himself with the task of getting cleaned up, his spend wiped on a rag that is then wrapped tight in a tunic set aside for washing. Then he straightens her clothing tenderly. _Ir abelas_ he thinks, but to voice the apology aloud would be to admit to himself that he crossed a line.

In the morning when the Seeker comes he is again the reserved scholar, answering her questions with cool detachment. Yes, the fever is worsening - a tonic might bring her temperature down somewhat, but the magic may yet kill her if left unchecked. Yes the mark is spreading - he theorises that it flares in synchronicity with the Breach but would need to take the prisoner outside to observe before it can be confirmed. Although unconscious, she does appear to feel pain. Would it be acceptable to give her a potion against the worst of it? Now if the Seeker will excuse him, he has some duties to attend to - why, nothing, merely laundry.

That night he awakes to silence. Fearing the worst he hurries to the prisoner’s side. She's still, her skin cool to the touch. But there! Between her parted lips, the slightest puff of breath against his fingers.

Just to be certain, he tells himself as he eases her lips further apart. His fingers find her pulse, slow but strong. And there, another breath, fluttering against his lips as his tongue eases into her mouth, his hand sliding down to cup her breast. The fever has broken, and she lives. She's alive, so very alive beneath his wandering hands.

 _“Emma,”_ he whispers, _mine_. He marked her, he saved her. She belongs to him now. He will free her, clear away the shameful traces of her past and she will rebuild the world by his side. He will mold her to his use, claim her so that no mortal man will ever compare.

His hand slips beneath her waistband.

There's a downy fuzz between her legs. In the days of ancient Arlathan it was common for men and women to remove all traces of hair from their bodies but he likes this, there's something primal about it. Not the coarse hair of a human body but a soft covering over her folds like the fur of a peach. And there, pushing past her folds, the slick flesh like a peach as well, ripe and warm. He traces the length of her slit before pushing inside.

Stroking, insistent - finally a slick flood of moisture coats his fingers. He probes deeper. Not a virgin - a low, possessive growl in the back of his throat as he pictures her being inexpertly fucked by some ignorant Dalish boy. Against a tree perhaps, or down in the dirt, her fingers scrabbling in the leaf litter as he grunted and rutted against her sweet, pale flesh.

 _“Emma laimsa,”_ he growls, _my slave, my lost one._ He's drunk on the power he has over her yielding body. _“Isalan dera na aron tuelan.” I will touch you like a god._ And with god-like arrogance he laughs, tugs her loosened pants down around her thighs.

His fingers glisten in the dim torchlight. He inhales her scent, licks her juices from his fingers but it's not enough. He needs to taste her, needs to lap that sweet peach nectar from the source. And who will stop him?

 _“Mar rodhe ir’on,”_ he purrs, praising her taste. He imagines she breathes faster when he pushes his tongue inside her, is sure that a shudder of release runs through her when he laps eagerly at her clit. She is his, and her body knows.

The following day he is permitted to carry the prisoner out into the snow, wrapped in heavy furs against the cold. He takes notes, pleased to see that the mark does in fact pulse in time with the Breach. Every now and then the wounded sky will ripple, spewing forth a fresh wave of demons, and her sharp intake of breath conjures images of him hilted inside her, her head falling back in ecstasy as she rides him to completion.

That night it's he who mounts her, the wet sounds of their coupling echoing off the cell walls. There is no wrong in this, she has put a spell on him as surely as his magic has marked her. Her limp, pliant state is tacit permission, it can't be a violation when her cunt is so wet around him, her nipples peaking so prettily under his touch. _May the Dread Wolf take you,_ the Dalish say to each other, and he takes her until his breath is ragged, pulls out at the last second to allow his seed to spurt over her breasts and belly. For however much this girl is destined for him, he does not wish to explain to the Seeker how the unconscious elf came to be with child.

But she wants him. He feels it in her sighs when he gently wipes her clean, in the way her head lolls softly on his shoulder when he holds her in his arms. She is his, and his alone.

He prefers to break his fast alone in the solitude of their shared cell, but the next day as he returns to the Chantry with his meagre rations he's waylaid by Varric.

“Chuckles!”

“Must you call me that?” He doesn't trust the dwarf, there's something about the glint of his eyes that's too knowing. He admires the man's good humour and respects his curiosity, but he would rather the latter was not directed towards him.

“More rifts, up the mountain. We need everyone we can get. You in?”

He glances back towards the Chantry. “I must check on the prisoner.” How he hates that word, even as her bound state excites him. “She was stable when I left, but she's just recently passed out of danger…”

“They shouldn't need you there.” Varric pauses, studying his face. “Wait...you haven't heard, have you?” The glint in his eyes is most pronounced when he grins. “She's awake.”


	2. The Dreamer

Aideen Lavellan. When he first sees her awake he's struck by the vivid blue of her eyes. Eyes that widen in surprise when he seizes her wrist, thrusts her marked hand in the direction of the open rift.

His fingers linger a moment. Can she feel it? The thread that connects them, his magic pulsing up her wrist. He's grateful for the shapeless clothes he's chosen to wear, the long tunic that conceals her effect on his body.

They've dressed her in mercenary garb and she clutches a staff that's clearly not familiar to her, though her white-knuckled grip suggests it's the only thing keeping her from flying apart. He can sense her fear, her confusion.

 _Don't be afraid, da'len. You belong to me now._ The icy wind whips her pale hair and he's struck anew by the beauty in her lively face.

 

“She has collapsed.” Cassandra's dark brows are drawn in concern. “Solas?”

He crouches at her side. “Exhaustion. The effort of closing the Breach so soon after waking has proven too much for her.”

Cassandra looks stricken, and Varric humphs with laughter. “What's the matter, Seeker? A couple of hours ago you were ready to throw her to the wolves.”

“You heard Most Holy,” the Seeker snaps. “She can seal the rifts. She is our only hope.”

Solas ignores them, concentrating on the softness of her skin, her pulse steady beneath his fingers.

“She needs rest. Have her carried back to Haven.” He straightens, eyeing the unconscious elf with what he hopes is an impassive gaze. “It would be wise to give her a sedating potion. We should ensure she has adequate time to rest.”

“Thank you, Solas.” There is such sincerity in Cassandra's voice he almost feels guilty.

Almost.

 

He waits until darkness falls. She will be alone until morning, he has insisted that she not be disturbed and to his relief, the apothecary not only agreed but also supplied the sleeping draught that will keep her under.

It's hard to believe his good fortune as he creeps through her window. The air grows thick with a barrier spell - no sounds will escape the small hut this night.

Aideen is laid on top of the bedclothes like a doll, and like a doll he undresses her, shifting slack limbs to remove the form-fitting tunic and leggings they have clad her in. Then the silk underthings, no doubt Josephine’s touch.

There's little moonlight coming through the window, but his eyes are keen enough in the dark to make out the contours of her pale body. She's perfect, her hair spread out in a halo on the pillow, her slender limbs splayed and the subtle curves of her body begging for his touch. He finds his hands tremble as they fondle the small, high breasts, follow the soft line of her hip down to brush between her thighs, feeling the damp heat radiating from her core.

Impatient now, he sheds his own clothes. She seems to weigh nothing when he lifts her into his lap, her arms resting around his neck and her tousled head pressed against his shoulder. And her long legs, those he positions on each side of his waist, pushing her thighs wide as he eases into her warmth.

Asleep she may be but her cunt clenches around him, drawing him in. He gasps broken phrases of elvhen as he thrusts into her, lifting her limp body only to slam her back down onto his cock. When her head lolls away from his shoulder he can imagine it's thrown back in passion and he rains hungry kisses on her exposed throat.

 _“Ar lasa mala revas,”_ he grunts, hearing the needy cries of some faceless long-ago elf as he fucked her until tears of gratitude ran from her eyes. _I have freed you._

Surely he doesn't imagine the flutter of her walls around his cock, drawing him close to his own end? He lowers her to the bed and flips her onto her stomach, a few quick strokes all he needs before jets of his seed splash onto the flawless skin of her back.

Gentle now, he cleans her, dresses her, rearranges her like a doll on top of the coverlet. Presses a kiss to her unresisting lips.

She still hasn't woken in the afternoon when he comes back to study the mark. It's stable now, closing the Breach seems to have arrested its spread and the painful flares have ceased. He notes as much in the journal. Her condition too seems to have improved - her pulse is less thready, her breathing slow and regular. And he can feel the steady resurgence of her mana, stronger than he anticipated. Yes, she will be a worthy consort indeed when he has finished shaping her to his needs. She will be formidable.

This he thinks as he pours a careful trickle of sleeping draught into her mouth, rubbing her throat to aid her in swallowing.

“Drink for me, _ma’haurasha,”_ he whispers. “One more night.”

He's not certain when another chance may come. So this night he unclasps her tunic and buries his face in her breasts, drags her to the edge of the bed and with her legs draped over his shoulders he fucks her. Claims her with his face twisted in a feral snarl, hard and fast like he knows she wants. Because she wants this, he knows she does. She must.

When he hears the next day of her waking he wonders if she feels him there still, if she carries the ache of him deep in her cunt.

 

The Herald of Andraste, for so they call her now, is a soft-spoken girl, the slightness of her form exaggerated by a tendency to slouch. Still, she moves with an easy grace, an unconscious sensuality in the sway of her narrow hips.

She seeks him out that same evening, curious about her fellow elf, the mysterious apostate who saved her life. He’s fascinated with the flicker of emotions that play over her face. He will stay, he tells her, and she's delighted to keep this new ally close at hand.

“Was that in doubt?” she asks.

“I am an apostate mage surrounded by Chantry forces,” he retorts, more stern than intended, “and unlike you, I do not have a divine mark protecting me.” Her radiant smile fades and frowning, she takes her lower lip between small white teeth. Those lips, he can still taste them on the tip of his tongue. “Cassandra has been accommodating, but you understand my caution.”

“You came here to help, Solas.” Kindness shines from her blue eyes. “I won't let them use that against you.”

How pretty she would look, bathed in the blood of their enemies. “How would you stop them?”

There's fire and steel in those blue depths. “However I had to,” she says with conviction, and his body quakes with desire for her. If the stakes were not so high he would be tempted to strip her down and take her right there against the wall of his cabin, let the entire Inquisition see who she belongs to.

 

She wanders, dreaming. It's Haven and yet not, washed in the luminous colours of the Fade. The snow beneath her feet lacks bite, neither cold nor warm. Barefoot in her dreams, always barefoot. She walks until the woods surround her on all sides and she's blissfully, wonderfully lost.

He can taste her in the air, her rainforest scent filling his nostrils. No Dalish but he can move as silently as she beneath the trees of the Fade.

_Lethal’lan._

It's the merest hint of a whisper, a sigh that might have been the wind through the leaves. But here there is no wind.

Or is there? As her eyes search between the trees she feels something brush her cheek. The next touch stirs the loose strands of her hair, barely grazing her neck.

“Who's there?” she cries.

She fancies she hears a chuckle from somewhere deep in the trees, in all directions and yet none. Then ethereal fingers slip beneath her armour to caress her breast.

“Stop it!” There's an edge of panic in her voice and a hoarse note of something else - desire? Twisting loose threads of the veil into creeping tendrils, he sends them to snake beneath her clothing, caressing every inch of skin and she wheels, confused and aroused, helpless to evade his touch.

“Why?” she half sobs. She's encountered demons in the Fade, but even a Desire demon was never like this. Trying to brush the ghostly fingers away does nothing - they stroke and tease, and his laughter still echoes around her.

From his vantage point he sees her stumble to a nearby tree, pressing her back to it as if it might shield her from his advances. He shapes his will into a single thick strand and presses it deep inside her.

“Who are you?” she gasps. He doesn't answer until she's shaking with the need for release, warping the veil so it seems he whispers it in her ear, and when she hears him she shudders, coming hard with his magic flowing over her cunt like water.

Aideen wakes gasping, the aftershocks still pulsing through her body. A single whispered word floating in the night air.

_Fen’Harel._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aideen (pron. AY-deen) is an Irish name meaning "little fire".
> 
> Ma’haurasha : My honey. A very sexual endearment that essentially means “You make me wet,” or “You make me hard.”  
> Project Elvhen http://archiveofourown.org/works/3553883


	3. The Herald

Fire is her element.

This he learned in the Hinterlands, watching their foes fall, writhing, beneath an onslaught of heat and flame. When she caught his eye he gave her a small bow of approval and she smiled, elated.

He remembers this as he watches the campfire cast an orange glow on her pale skin.

The search for apostate caches has led them here to the ruin of an ancient tower near Dwarfson's Pass. It was he who suggested they camp here after a long day’s journey from the Crossroads. She's settled cross-legged on the ground, idly braiding and rebraiding her long hair.

Solas wonders if she recalls her dream as vividly as he does. Fen'Harel’s power pressing around her, invading her tight little body until she came undone - he doubts she's had better, sleeping or waking. Perhaps she could use a reminder?

“Did you believe the Conclave could achieve peace, Cassandra?” Without looking at Aideen, he sends a tiny strand of veil energy snaking in her direction.

Cassandra’s stern expression belies the sadness in her rich voice. “I had hope. As did we all.”

From the corner of his eye he sees Aideen’s hand move to brush at her neck. His magic pools in the hollow of her throat before following the path a trickle of water might take. Sliding down between her breasts, dipping into her navel, then down, down...

His voice is perfectly neutral, all his attention seemingly focused on the Seeker. “The templars went to war to force mages back into their Circles, which the mages would never agree to.” Whisper-light, he strokes between her folds. Light enough that it might be her imagination. “What solution could Divine Justinia have offered when all sides rejected compromise?"

“The war was going nowhere for either side. That they went at all showed that they realized this.” Cassandra doesn't notice Aideen shift, frowning, bringing her feet to the front and pushing her thighs together. Still he twines between her legs until her breath comes through pursed lips, fast and shallow.

“Or they believed the other side would relent.” He spares a glance for the Herald; her eyes have fluttered closed and a keen eye can see her body trembling. He focuses his attention on the sensitive nub above her sex, teasing with a touch softer than raindrops, lighter than moth wings, more relentless than the tide. She's fighting for control, her arousal building, building...

“We shall never know now.” Staring into the flames, Cassandra doesn't notice when Aideen jolts upright with a stifled gasp, her fingers digging into the grassy ground.

“Are you well, da'len?” Solas asks as she stands unsteadily.

“I'm fine, thank you Solas.” The heat of the fire hides the blush he knows is suffusing her face. “I just...I think I'll go to bed.”

He inclines his head, the disinterested scholar. Inside he crows with triumph.

Nowhere is safe from me, _ma’haurasha_.

 

The ruins where she walks are bathed in a strange twilight. Where the Inquisition tents should be there's springy grass beneath her feet and the ancient stones of the tower feel oddly soft under her fingers. It takes her a moment to realise she's dreaming. A moment longer, to realise she's not alone.

“You have returned to me, _da’ise_.” _Little_ _flame_ , he names her _._ His voice caresses her, kindling a warm glow between her thighs.

When she tries to look behind her she finds she can't turn her head from the stone wall.

“Fen’Harel,” she says flatly. “Bringer of Nightmares.”

The unseen figure laughs, low and sinful. “Nightmares?” Warm breath tickles the back of her neck. “It seemed to me you did not find our last encounter so unpleasant, little one.”

“Let me go,” she whispers.

“I have not touched you...yet.”

“You have.” She exhales shakily. “You're holding me here now.”

“Then wake up.” A hand brushes her own, making her twitch.

“I can't.” Smooth fingers twine through hers.

“You don't want to.” He caresses her sylvanwood ring. “A Keeper?”

“First of my clan.”

“A reminder of the Dread Wolf’s betrayal.” She bristles at the amusement in his voice. “A reminder to be ever vigilant. Are you vigilant now, da'len?” He closes his lips around her finger, slides it lewdly in and out of his mouth, his wet tongue playing over the carved ring. Heat pools low in her belly.

“Stop that,” she protests weakly.

“You could stop me if you wished it.” He releases her hand to lick and nibble at her exposed neck and she's horrified to hear herself moan.

Fear, she tells herself. It's not arousal, just fear. “Liar. Trickster.”

“I may lie, _da’ise_ , but this does not.” A hand slides between her legs and she stifles a whimper. “Let me hear you, lethallin.” Persistent fingers rub at her clothed sex, waves of reluctant desire building under his touch. “Let me hear how much you need me.”

“I don't,” she says through gritted teeth. “Let me go.”

The unseen man steps back, and she aches at the loss of his touch. “On your knees.” All trace of amusement is gone, his voice ringing with power.

No, she thinks, but somehow she's on her knees.

“Hands on the ground,” and they are, her fingers splayed wide on the stone. He bends over her and her dream clothing melts away beneath his hands like spiderwebs.

“Beautiful.” His touch is feather-light over her shoulders, her buttocks, her deceptively strong thighs. His knees push her legs further apart and she's shamefully exposed, her glistening sex bared to his gaze.

“Please,” she gasps. “Please don't.”

“You don't want this?” His long fingers run down the naked curve of her spine and over her hips. The air shifts and twists around her until a thousand fingers stroke her breasts, a thousand wicked tongues lick at her thighs. “Say it.”

“I did.” Her whole body quivers.

“Say you don't want me inside that sweet little cunt of yours.” When she remains silent, the tip of him presses between her thighs. “Say you don't want me to fuck you until you cannot stand.” He drags the head of his cock between her wet folds. “Say it, _da’ise_ , and I will release you.”

“No,” she whimpers, not even sure what she means anymore. “No.”

“You are mine.” A single gasp as he penetrates her, then she's obstinately, willfully silent. Silent when he pulls back and thrusts into her again with all his strength, and again, and again. Drags her back against him as he drives himself ever deeper into her body, and she doesn't make a sound even when she comes the first time, shaking like a leaf. He doesn't flag, long after her arms give way and it's only his iron grip on her waist that keeps her in place.

Hours, it feels like, days and the pace of his thrusts never slows, and when she thinks he's wrung the last climax from her aching body he drags her back to another shattering peak.

She doesn't know when her resolve falters, only that her throat is hoarse with the cries he wrings from her.

“Scream my name,” he growls, and she does. “You are mine.”

“I'm yours,” she sobs. “I'm yours, Fen'Harel,” and with a roar he spills deep inside her.

 

A dream. She wakes with a slick of arousal between her thighs, her heart pounding. It was just a dream.

It was, it was.

 

“Solas?”

She's wrapped in a blanket, cradling a cup of steaming liquid in her hands. He smiles, gestures at his narrow bed and she perches at the foot.

“I'm sorry to interrupt.” She looks tired, and it's little wonder. Every moment of her day is taken up by the Inquisition. Away from Haven, trudging through swamps and up and down rocky coasts, fighting for her life every step of the way. In Haven she's pulled in every direction at once, what little time she has unallocated spent seeing to the needs of her people. Including him. He's ready with a listening ear, he answers her endless stream of questions, doling out tiny signs of approval that make her blue eyes gleam with joy. He's her wise _ghi’lan_ , her teacher. She wants to please him.

And by night...she delays sleep as long as she can, but he's waiting for her there in the Fade. He stalks her, corners her, and every time there's a show of defiance. It should enrage him, but her denial of him makes it all the sweeter when he breaks down her defences, fucks her with fingers and tongue and cock and magic, fills her until she flies apart, until she can't remember any name but his. Fen’Harel.

What is she drinking? His keen nose detects herbs, a blend used by the Dalish to prevent conception. She notices his attention and blushes.

“It stops my courses,” she explains. “It's just...one less thing to worry about.”

“You need not justify yourself to me, da'len,” he says calmly. Inside he's anything but calm. Soon, he thinks with satisfaction. Soon I will come inside you, I will mark your sweet _bredhas_ with my seed, as it should be. “Did you wish to speak with me?”

“Yes,” she says, then, “no.” She sighs. “The things I saw…”

“In Redcliffe?” He knows it has haunted her, has seen the echoes of that twisted future in her dreams.

“You died.” Her soft voice breaks, her wide eyes filling with tears. “I mean, everybody died, but I saw you. I saw…”

“Hush, da'len.” He crosses to her side, the mattress dipping under his weight. “I am alive, and so are you. People will yet die, but you will save us from that future.”

“Will I?” she cries. “What if I'm not strong enough?”

“Do you have reason to doubt your strength?”

For a moment she hovers on the verge of a confession, before shaking her head. “Not so long as I have friends.” She smiles tremulously, and it's all he can do not to claim those soft pink lips.

“You should sleep,” he says instead. There he will kiss her, he will bind her eyes with shadows and part her lips with his tongue, he will make her ride him until she milks every last drop from his cock.

“Thank you, Solas.” She pauses at the door of his cabin. “You've been a true friend.”

“Dar’eth shiral.” A fond smile, gifted to a favourite student. “I will see you in the morning.”

 

She's frozen to the bone, curled in Cullen's arms like a child. They all look to Solas - he saved her before, he must do so again. Without her, all is lost.

“Blankets,” he snaps. “And hot water. Bring her to my tent.”

She's lain gently on his sleeping roll and he casts a rune of fire beneath to warm her. Still her lips and fingers are blue.

“Leave us,” he orders when the second bucket of steaming water has been placed on the ground. “The next hours are crucial. I will let you know when her condition changes, until then we are not to be disturbed.”

The concern in their eyes is all for her. For Solas there is trust, gratitude. He will save their Herald. She trusts him, and so do they.

“Foolish child,” he mutters when they are alone. “You could have died.” She won't die, he knows, but he needs to get her warm. To that end he peels the frozen clothes from her body, her skin even paler than usual. Then he strips naked and climbs beneath the blankets with her, warming her with his own body heat.

 _I'd sacrifice myself to save Haven._ The memory makes him growl in fury.

“The sacrifice is not yours to make, _da’ise_.” His hands wander over her chilled flesh. “You are mine.” Her nipples are rock hard, her breasts pebbled with goosebumps. “Mine.”

No would-be god will steal her from him. The white curve of her neck, that is his. These pert little breasts, softening in his grasping hands, his. Belly, thighs, cunt, he rubs her at first to bring the warmth back to her skin then he's lost in the feel of her under his fingers. So still, she won't wake for hours yet. Her back is pressed against his chest and his cock is hard between her thighs.

“You returned to me, _ma’harausha_.” Lost in the dark, in the snow, she found her way to him like an arrow. He rocks against her, his shaft rubbing along her slit, fingers working between her thighs. She's cold, unresponsive, but it doesn't matter. She returned to him.

He moistens her entrance with his spit before pushing into her. It's an unfamiliar feeling, cool and dry. It doesn't matter once he gets moving, her channel pressing tight around him, her chilled skin still so soft beneath his lips. His quiet grunts punctuate the steady slap of skin on skin.

“I will save you, da'len,” he pants in her ear. “You belong to me.” He can feel his balls begin to tighten, his climax fast approaching. This time he stays inside her when he comes, jets of his seed flowing into her like life, warming her from the inside. He imagines her skin is pinker when he finally withdraws, followed by a trickle of white down her thigh.

Warm water. He presses on her belly to expel what seed he can. Two fingers he slips inside her, summoning a healing glow to remove any abrasions he might have caused thrusting into her too-dry channel. Then he cleans her gently.

“Who - Solas?” It's hours later when she finally stirs, embarrassed to find him pressed to her back although they're both dressed in their underclothes, beyond reproach.

At once he sits up, distancing himself.

“You are awake.” His tone is cool and clinical. “I will fetch the Seeker.”

“A moment, Solas.” Her gaze takes in the piled blankets, their partially clothed state. She will think it a great sacrifice that the reserved apostate would stoop to warming her with his own body. “It seems I owe you my life once more.”

 _You owe me nothing, Aideen Lavellan,_ he thinks. _Your life is already mine._ He smiles indulgently. “Rest, da'len. I shall return.”


	4. The Inquisitor

“Sleep well?”

The Inquisitor clasps her hands in front of her. “I've never done anything like that before.” She smiles shyly. “On a number of levels.”

Of course he knows what she means. In the Fade, he journeyed with her to Haven. He showed her the underground cell where he observed her mark. Where he first fucked her sleeping body, although he doesn't mention that part. And when she kissed him, nervously, almost chastely, he pulled her to him and kissed her with a force that bent her backwards, pulling her hips flush against his and letting her feel the evidence of his need for her growing hard against her thigh.

It would be too easy, however, for her to make connections he's not yet ready to reveal.

“What do you mean, da'len?” he asks, all detached curiosity.

Aideen frowns, confused. “The Fade...I thought…” She shakes her head, annoyed with herself. “It was a dream. I'm sorry, I was confused.”

“I was in your dream?” He allows himself a small smirk, just to see her blush.

“Yes. We were in Haven.”

“It is hardly surprising that you would dream of Haven.” He leans back in his chair, steepling his fingers. “It was...difficult. For you most of all.”

“But it wasn’t…” She trails off, pink with shame. “I dream often, since the mark. Vivid dreams. I thought...this seemed different.”

“Would it help to talk about these dreams?”

“No!” She crosses her arms, an unconscious gesture of protection. “I mean, I would rather not.”

“Do they frighten you, da’len?”

“Yes,” she whispers.

“Tell me.” His voice is soft and sympathetic. He will share her burdens, it tells her, offer her his wise counsel. “I am familiar with the Fade, I may be able to offer some insight.”

Her eyes are wide, uncertain. “I dream about...Fen’Harel.”

“Ah. The Dread Wolf.”

She narrows her eyes at his tone. “I know you do not believe in the elven gods, Solas, but there’s no cause to mock me. To me, they are real.” She shivers. “He is real.”

“I am sorry, da’len.” He leans forward. “Tell me about your dreams. Please.”

Somewhat mollified, she searches for the words to describe what happens to her each night in the Fade without giving too much away. “He hunts me. I can’t hide, can’t run. Can’t even move.”

“Paralysis? A common theme in nightmares.” He prompts her to continue. “Does he speak?”

“Yes.” She gulps.

“And what does he say?”

“That I’m his. He owns me.” Other things, he has said to her. He has described the ways he will violate her sweet young body, and everything he has said, he has done. He has praised her tight, wet cunt, her soft warm mouth, the way she takes his cock so beautifully, fitting him like a glove. These things, she will not tell Solas.

“Ah.” He reaches for her hand. “It is not surprising that you would feel a loss of identity, lethallan. You have been claimed for Andraste, for the Inquisition, for Corypheus. To the Dalish, Fen’Harel is the embodiment of danger - it is hardly surprising that he is the form your nightmares take.”

“Oh.” Her shoulders sag with relief. “Do you really think that’s all it is?”

“What else?” He smiles kindly, taking the edge off his mockery. “Do you think you really have been claimed by an ancient god?”

“When you put it like that, it does sound silly.” She laughs and covers her face with her hands. “Thank you, Solas. Talking with you always makes things better.”

When she leaves him it’s with a lighter step and a reassured smile.

 

There’s no trace of that reassurance when he finds her in the Fade, takes her bent forwards over Solas’s desk.

_“Nuvenan rosa’da’din in ma sule enan’ma.”_

Her eyes are open, but pinned to the desk she can’t see his face, can only feel his body pounding into hers. “I don’t know what you’re saying.” She’s still defiant, telling herself that she’s here against her will, that she doesn’t hunger for him with every fibre of her being.

“It means I want to come inside of you until I spill out of you.” He didn’t think she could get any tighter but at his words her cunt clenches around him. “You like that, da’ise? _Ha’mi’in. Lasa em tua rosas’da’din.”_   _Relax,_ it means. _Let me make you come._ But no translation is needed - as he rakes his nails down her back she convulses beneath him, a reedy wail breaking from her throat. He bends down close to her ear, slips his fingers between her legs to coax another reluctant orgasm from her sweat-slicked body. “I am no dream, da’len. Remember this when you wake.”

“I hate you,” she hisses.

“Tell yourself that.” He pinches her clit between practiced fingers and feels her shudder again. “Who else makes you feel this?”

“Feel what?” she spits. “Used? Soiled?”

He chuckles. “All that and more.”

 

She carries a haunted look that most attribute to her ordeal in Haven. Different strategies are employed to cheer her up - Varric jokes, Cassandra spars with her for hours at a time. Vivienne dresses her like an expensive doll, Josephine tempts her with luxuries that mostly serve to confuse her, Cole sneaks into her quarters with small reminders of home that just make her sad. Blackwall carves her trinkets, little halla and griffons. Sera’s pranks become more elaborate and outrageous until she’s forced to intervene personally, before half the nobles withdraw their support. Dorian finds her rare books that she devours gratefully, and Cullen joins her for chess games in the garden.

Bull? Bull just gets her drunk.

 

Solas crouches in the shadows, hearing the Iron Bull’s heavy tread on the stairs.

“Think I made you drink a little much there, boss,” he hears him rumble.

“I’m fine,” she protests weakly. “I can walk.”

“That’s what you said before you fell over.” With a grunt, he deposits her on the bed and fetches a glass of water from the pitcher on her desk. “Drink this.”

“Last time you told me to drink something…” she grumbles, but takes the water gratefully. “What’re you doing?”

“Getting your boots off.” That task done, he pulls the blankets up to her neck and tucks her in gently. “See you tomorrow, boss.”

“To dragons!” she cries, her voice muffled in the pillow.

“Ha ha, yep, to dragons.” At the top of the stairs he freezes, his shrewd eye scanning the room. There’s a second when Solas is sure he looks right at his hiding place on the balcony. Then he grunts, shakes his head and slowly descends the stairs. Finally the door clicks shut behind him.

 

Everything hurts. Her head, her neck, the back of her throat...she shifts, and her body feels bruised. Why is she naked? The last thing she remembers, she was in the tavern with Bull, and now…

She lets out a horrified whimper at the sight of her body, bruised and covered in bite marks, long scratches marring her thighs. Dried filth covers her in streaks, even her hair is matted. “Why?” she cries. “What did I do?” If it happened here, and it must have by the state of her sheets, the other person is long gone. Did she consent to being used this way? She wants to remember, and just as fiercely she doesn’t.

It’s hours before she feels clean enough to face the world outside and it takes all her courage to enter the tavern, seeking out the corner where Bull always sits. He grins when he first sees her, his smile quickly fading when he takes in her dazed expression.

“What’s up, boss?”

“Bull…” Her voice is little more than a croak. She clears her throat and tries again. “What...happened, last night?”

He looks troubled. “You remember drinking?”

“That’s the last thing I remember.”

“You got a little messy,” he says. “I took you back to your room.”

“And did we…?”

“No!” he says vehemently. “Is that what you’re worried about? I wouldn’t do that to you, boss. Not in that state.”

“And when you left…?”

“You were tucked in bed. Didn’t do more than take your boots off, I promise.” He sees her wince in pain when she moves. “Why, something wrong? You did fall over a little. Wouldn’t have done more than grazed your knee.”

“That must be it,” she says faintly.

“You sure, boss?” She can see he’s not convinced, but she forces a smile.

“It’s fine, Bull. Thanks for getting me to bed.”

Mad. She’s going mad. Or she’s possessed. Who can she tell? Solas...she shies away from the thought of explaining to him the state she woke in. Insensibly drunk, every orifice in her body violated, her skin marked as if by a wild beast...a demon seems the most logical explanation to her, but to others it might seem like an alcohol-fueled dalliance gone wrong, regretted in the morning. She believes Bull’s story, she doesn’t want to bring the Inquisition’s suspicions down on him.

“He marked you once, now he marks you again.” She’s not normally frightened of Cole but today his sudden appearance makes her recoil in alarm.

“I’m sorry.” Watery blue eyes seem to see through her tunic to the purple welts beneath. “He claims you. He likes it when you can’t move.”

“Who, Cole?” Tears run freely down her face. “Who did this?”

It’s barely more than a whisper. Is Cole afraid of him, too?

“The wolf.”

 

Solas notes in the Exalted Plains how she shivers each time they pass a statue of Fen’Harel, steadfastly refusing to look in its face. Even the sound of wolves howling makes her draw in a shaky breath, and here the howling of wolves is everywhere, day and night.

One night in the Fade he’ll take her in front of one of those statues, grasp her hair tight and force her to face its stony gaze as he fucks her from behind. He remembers the feel of it sliding through his fingers as he pushed his cock into her slack mouth. He went too far that night, he knows, but something about her sleeping body makes the thread of his control fray and snap. He meant to stay and clean her up, heal the marks he left on her...but as he lingered, watching his seed leaking from her, she stirred. Mumbled, "Solas?" her bleary eyes resting on him, and he fled.

That doesn't matter now. Right now they have one goal, and they must not waver.

Wisdom. He last sensed her here, but there’s a growing sense of wrongness as they approach. Not all these ruined bodies are the work of bandits. When they finally find her, she’s already beyond saving.

“Lethallin, ir abelas.”

“I’m not. I’m happy. I’m me again.”

Aideen watches them, but he knows she can’t understand everything they say. Dalish elvish is fractured, merely a series of parroted phrases and half-remembered words.

Wisdom sees her. And she sees him, sees into the darkest parts of his soul.

“This is what happens, when wisdom is twisted into pride.” And he knows her sadness is not for herself, but for him. “Release her, Solas. You cannot own another.”

He has always listened to her counsel, but this time his want is too great. “I cannot, lethallin. She is bound to me with blood and seed. She is my destiny.”

“It is not too late.”

“It is. Before it even began, it was too late. I am sorry, my friend.”

She’s too weary to argue. “You helped me. Now you must endure.” Already fragments of her drift into the still air. “Guide me into death.”

Pained, he lets his eyes drift shut. “As you say.”

She is gone.

 

For days on end he has dreamt, wandering the realms where Wisdom once dwelled. He feels an echo of her there, a stirring of future possibilities. Not the friend he mourns, but her wisdom continues. If only some of it could be his.

He tries, tries to live without his vhenan. But the need is like a hunger burning in his belly, and when he feels Aideen’s presence in the Fade it is like the scent of prey to a starving animal.  It is Solas she searches for, but Fen’Harel she finds.

“Who is this person you search for, lethallan?” His presence crowds around her, lapping at her skin. “Some lost lover?”

“A friend.” She has been searching for such a long time, she is too worn to fight him. “He is missing. I can’t do this without him.”

Ghostly hands stroke her breasts. “What would you give, to have your friend back?”

“Myself.” There is no hesitation. For a moment he is taken aback, then he laughs.

“Yourself? I already have you, _da’ise.”_ In a display of ownership, he floods her cunt with tingling warmth.

“I won’t fight you any more,” she says, her voice shaking. “I surrender, Fen’Harel. Anything you ask of me.”

“Ma vhenan.” The words ghost across her skin like a kiss. “Look at me.”

She turns frightened eyes towards him. She will see a shifting shadow, his face now bare, now painted like a wolf. A mass of dark braids down his back, his torso bare and gleaming.

“Kiss me, vhenan,” he commands, and he groans as her warm tongue darts against his lips. He unwraps her like a gift, laying her naked body on the soft ground and worshipping her skin with his mouth and hands until she writhes beneath him. When he fucks her it’s tender, slow and gentle, their ragged breath mingling as he drags slowly in and out.

The marks of his teeth are still stark on her breasts. He kisses them, and they fade. The scratches on her thighs vanish under his gentle fingers.

“I marked you thus,” he whispers. _“Ir abelas.”_

“How…?” she murmurs, her mind fogged with lust.

“Shh, vhenan.” It’s ecstasy, the slide of her warm sheath around him, her blue eyes fixed on his face. “You are mine, and I am yours. It is all you need to know.”

The next day, Solas returns.

 

He watches her on the balcony of her room, speaking with a dream version of himself. He recalls this conversation - in a minute he will turn and leave, but no, the dream Solas is kissing her, his fingers dragging through her hair, his tongue parting her sweet lips. He’s intrigued by how far her imagination will take her - will he drag her to the ground? Bend her over the balcony and fuck her? Carry her inside to the soft, clean sheets and bare those pale young breasts, take those rosy nipples in his mouth?

But as the kiss continues he feels an irrational jealousy growing inside him. Jealous of himself! The dream Solas’s fingers stray close to her breast and he lets out a feral growl.

“Leave him, _da’ise.”_ She makes a sound of surprise, and the dream Solas vanishes like ashes on the breeze. “You need none but me.”

“I - I am sorry, Fen’Harel. It was just a dream.”

“I forgive you, vhenan.” He holds out his hand, and in a daze she comes to him. “Take your clothes off for me.” He licks his lips as she unbuttons her tunic, peels away her leggings. “Lie on the bed,” he commands, “and spread your legs.”

When he kneels before her she’s already quivering. He can smell her arousal, see it glistening on her thighs.

“Such a pretty little cunt,” he purrs. “Such a good, tight, wet little cunt.” A finger drags slowly up between her folds and she whimpers. “You remember the words I taught you, _ma laimsa?”_

She closes her eyes. _“Sathan, dava ‘ma edhas.” Please, lick my pussy._ He obliges, a slow sweep of his tongue up the length of her slit, feeling how her thighs tremble beneath his hands. Then he waits.

 _“Atha ‘ma’edhas’av i mar av,”_ she gasps, _seperate the lips of my cunt with your tongue._ He pushes past her folds to taste her sweet juices, licking deep within her until they run down his chin.

“Touch yourself,” he commands, and tentatively her fingers start to work at her clit, his tongue sliding wetly around them, insubstantial fingers twisting and plucking at her nipples until she arches, all but flying off the mattress.

“Say it.” Two fingers press inside her wet sheath, pumping fast in and out. “Say it, vhenan.”

“Ar lath ma!” she screams, bucking and writhing. “Ar lath ma, Fen’Harel!”

She is his, and he is pleased.


	5. The Orphan

_“Fen'Harel!”_ Her scream echoes through the Fade. _“FEN'HAREL!”_

He's there in an instant, his magic wrapped around her like a cloak.

“What did you do?” She's wide-eyed, gripped by an energy that shakes her small body like a storm. _“Harellan,_ what have you _done?”_

“Tell me what you think I have done, _da’ise.”_ He tightens his hold around her, hoping to calm the rage and grief that rolls off her in waves. The veil squeezes around her until she's gasping for breath, but not until her knees buckle does he release her, lowering her gently to the ground where she falls on her side, her eyes blank and staring.

“They're dead,” she moans. “They're all dead.” A sound comes from the back of her throat, an awful low keening that goes on and on and all he can do is watch her, somehow powerless to offer comfort.

Solas knows, of course. Rumours fly around Skyhold faster than the raven that carried the missive from Wycome. The Inquisitor seen walking from her council room, dry-eyed and with a face the colour of ashes. Clan Lavellan wiped out with the stroke of a pen. Her pen.

“I was supposed to protect them,” she whispers. “From you. And what did I do?” Her laugh is low and terrible. “I _gave_ myself to you. Was this your true price, _harellan?”_

“This was not your doing, lethallan.” He crouches down next to her, sensing that to touch her right now would be a bad idea. “It was humans that killed your kin.”

“I made the wrong choice. I could have saved them.”

“You cannot know - “

 _“I could have saved them.”_ She digs the heels of her hands into her eyes, screaming through gritted teeth. “How can I lead? I can't protect my own people. I can't sleep, I can't _think!”_

“Vhenan…”

“Don't call me that.” In a fury she rounds on him, her blue eyes glittering. “You care for nobody but yourself. And why not? You're a fucking _god.”_

“Do not test me, da'len,” he warns. “I understand that you are grieving, but I will not stand for insolence.”

“What will you do to me, Fen'Harel?” she spits. “Steal my sleep until I can't think straight? Torment me, make me doubt my sanity? Force me to compromise all that I am? Tell me, oh Dread Wolf, what will you do to me that you haven't done already?”

Too fast for her mortal senses to comprehend he has her pinned to the ground, her clothing shredded away and his fist in her hair, baring her throat to him.

“If you think thus far I have not been gentle, da'len, you are very much mistaken. I can show you pleasure and pain the likes of which you cannot imagine.”

She glares at him, her chest heaving. “Fuck. You.”

He thrusts into her so hard her back bows, fucks her with the fury of an avalanche, fucks her as around them walls crumble and trees fall, storms lash their naked skin, ages pass and still he crashes against her like waves against a rock, pounding her into submission.

“Yield,” he snarls, and she spits in his face.

With a feral growl he flips her onto her stomach, takes her again with her face pressed into the ground and his nails digging into her hips until they draw blood. The force with which he drives into her her would break every bone in her waking body, would tear her insides apart and leave her bleeding to death. He throws her around like a puppet with cut strings.

“Harder!” she gasps, and he fucks her harder, faster, feeding off her screams of agony and ecstasy. Fire surrounds them, _her_ fire, everything is burning and crumbling to ash and still he fucks her until it is he who can endure no longer and he comes inside her like a flood.

She turns to look at him, her eyes hollow. It was not enough.

“Please,” she says dully. “Let me sleep.”

“This shall pass, lethallan.” He strokes long fingers down her spine, soothing her trembling. “Sleep now.”

He leaves her weeping, bruised and naked on the ground.

 

Aideen is a faded version of herself, one that nobody seems able to reach. For once her sleep is undisturbed but the early hours of the morning are less likely to find her in bed than haunting the battlements like a pale ghost, sad and silent.

More often than not on these nightly journeys she has a shadow. He keeps a respectful distance, watching as much to ensure her safety as because he can't look away. Cullen is the one whose advice she took, the one whose misstep led to the death of all her clan, and he bears the burden of guilt as surely as she does.

Then there comes a night when he sees her standing atop the high wall. Her fists are clenched at her sides, her eyes fixed unseeing on the sharp rocks below.

“Please, Inquisitor.” Silently he has closed the distance between them and now he holds out a gloved hand, trembling almost imperceptibly. “Please.”

She looks at it for a long time before she places her small hand in his. When she steps down they don't speak, don't look at each other, just stand holding hands until morning comes.

They become a fixture around Skyhold, the Inquisitor and the Commander. Walking together, eating together, playing silent games of chess in the sunlit garden. When she finally breaks down it’s his arms that cradle her, his tears of remorse that mingle with her own.

And when he finally kisses her,  she opens to him like parched soil to rain.

 

_“Da'ise.”_

Fen'harel has summoned her here to the battlements over Skyhold, and she knows why before she even sees the ghostly impression of herself, pinned to the wall beneath Cullen’s strong body, his thigh sliding between hers as she kisses him hungrily.

“I have given you peace.” His low voice contains an unspoken threat. “I have given you rest. Is this how you repay me, da'len?”

She raises her chin in defiance. “I may have given myself to you, Fen'Harel, but it doesn't mean you own me.”

“No.” He advances on her, his shadowy features darkening with anger. “I own you because you belong to me. It is not a choice. Not yours, not mine. It simply _is.”_

“You're wrong.” She tries to keep the fear from her voice, but somehow she finds herself surrounded. Cullen's shadow, her own, have become Fen'Harel, and the three of them press around her until all she sees is him.

She's dragged to the ground, her back pressed against Fen'Harel’s chest. Nimble fingers make quick work of her dream clothing and soon his nails rake over her naked breasts.

“Let me show you who owns you,” he growls before his cock presses into her tight channel, stretching and burning her as she gasps for air. Then another Fen'Harel kneels before her, parting her thighs and thrusting up into her cunt.

She's impossibly full, caught on the knife edge between pain and pleasure before they start moving in tandem and all such distinctions cease to matter. Another hard cock slides between her lips and she floats, helpless as the three of them penetrate her trapped body.

She offers silent pleas to the elven gods, to the Maker, anyone, but whether she prays for the violation to stop or continue, she couldn't say. At some point she realises she's writhing between them, clutching Fen'Harel’s face to her breast as Fen'Harel bites hard at her neck, her hand gripping the base of Fen'Harel’s shaft as he fucks her mouth, pulling hard on her hair to keep her from pulling back even if she had wished to.

She shatters again and again beneath their lips and fingers and grinding cocks, flying apart like raindrops on stone. They finish as one, flooding her with their seed until it pours out of her, running from her mouth and trickling down her legs.

Then there's just one of him left, standing above her with his cock still slick from her body. “Who do you belong to, _da’ise?”_

She's silent, refusing to meet his eyes until he grabs the hair at the nape of her neck and pulls her face up. _“Who?”_

“Fen'Harel,” she spits.

 

She comes awake between clean sheets, her nightdress intact and without the sticky sensation of Fen'Harel’s semen drying on her thighs and between her breasts.

 _Just a dream,_ she thinks. _I belong to no-one. No-one._


	6. The Slave

Her betrayal smells of sandalwood and musk, steel and leather, sex and _human._ Solas digs his fingers into the underside of his desk until his arms ache with the strain, fighting the snarl that threatens to break out on his face.

“I see you have been spending time with our Commander, da'len,” he says casually and she blushes, turning her blue eyes to her clasped hands.

“Cullen has been...a comfort. I know some will not approve, but it helps me to have his support.”

 _More than his support._ Inwardly he seethes, but he bestows on her a tolerant smile. “If it does not interfere with your duties, Inquisitor, I do not see the harm.”

He should tear the man apart with his bare hands. Incinerate him with lightning. But no, the crime is hers, it is she who belongs to another.

Perhaps he can forgive her, if it brought her no pleasure. Cullen has been solicitous, has indeed offered her support beyond the scope of his duty. If she felt obliged to...reciprocate...in some fashion...well, she is young and unwise in the ways of humans.

A foolish mistake, brought about by a misplaced sense of duty. That's what it must be.

Skyhold was once his fortress. The ancient stones whisper to him even in the waking world, but it's the Fade where their song can be heard most clearly.

In the Fade there is no-one to question why he enters the broken-down tower that now serves as the Commander’s office and quarters, stalking the small space like a caged beast.

Here she clutched his shoulders as he buried his golden head between her thighs. Here he laid her down on his desk, stripping away her tunic and showering her breasts with kisses. Here her joyful cries echoed off the stone walls until they were captured by his mouth, the two of them clinging to each other as they coupled, murmuring breathless words of love and devotion.

A green glow of rage builds in his eyes and he curses, raking his nails down the hard stone.

She thinks herself safe, thinks herself free, but she is not. She will learn.

 

When she sleeps, she sleeps heavily. Through the binding of her eyes, she sleeps, through the lashing of her wrists and ankles to the bedposts, she doesn't stir. It's not until her nightdress is hiked up around her waist, his tongue languorously sweeping through her dampening folds, that he hears a tiny moan of confused arousal.

“W-what...who's there?” A whimper as he teases her swollen labia with the tip of his tongue. “Cullen?”

A possessive growl rumbles from his chest. He pushes inside her slick warmth, his nose dragging against her sensitive clit as his tongue fucks her.

“Please,” she cries, wriggling against her bonds. “What are you doing?” She tries to pull away but he follows her up the bed, dragging her hips back against his face.

Now her breath is coming in short, staccato gasps, and he matches the rhythm with the flicker of his tongue on her clit, waiting until her hips buck off the mattress before diving back into her cunt, tongue curling like a kiss inside her pulsing walls.

“Cullen, this isn't funny,” she gasps.

He pulls away, wiping her juices from his chin. Then he laughs, the dark, dangerous laugh of Fen'Harel. “Guess again, _ma’laimsa.”_ Fade tendrils lick at her skin and she stiffens, an anguished gasp falling from her lips.

“No,” she says hoarsely. “You're just a dream. This is a dream.”

Panicked, she begins to thrash against her bonds. A firm hand on her belly holds her down, ghostly restraints stilling the wild movements of her limbs. With a snarl he grabs her cunt, three fingers thrusting into her heat as he thumbs her clit roughly.

“A dream, is it? Tell yourself that when the dawn finds you caked with my seed. Tell yourself that when you find my scratches on your back, my teeth marks in your thighs, the burn of my ropes on your wrists and ankles.” He curls his fingers inside her until her back arches. “Explain that to your human lover.”

“Don't…” she moans. She's close now, so close. Tonight he's going to drive all thoughts of Cullen from her mind. But first…

“Did he take you here, _da’ise?”_ he murmurs. “Did he flood this pretty cunt with his filthy human spend?” She tightens around his fingers, the wetness seeping out of her and dampening the sheets. “Did you let him taste what is mine?”

“It's not!” she cries. “I'm not yours! I belong to nobody.”

His fingers go still, and she whimpers.

“Now how can I reward you, da'len, when you are so wilful?”

“I don't need your rewards,” she spits. “Just leave me alone.”

“If only I could, my little flame. But you are my destiny. This,” his free hand slides down the sheer fabric of her nightdress, reaches her bare waist before stroking the downy fuzz surrounding her sex, “is my destiny.”

“You're insane.” The effect of her words is somewhat lost with the broken, pleading cadence of her voice. Her hips have begun unconsciously to rock against his hand, her body begging for release.

He reminds her just what he can do, using just his hand to bring her to a screaming, panting finish. “You come so prettily, da'len,” he purrs. “Did he make you come?”

“Fuck you,” she gasps raggedly.

“All in good time.” Her nightdress is barely worth the name, a scrap of lacy Orlesian stuff through which her rosy nipples are clearly visible. It takes barely a tug for the fabric to part like water, sliding away to bare her sweet little breasts. For now he barely skims her with his hands, crouching over her body to drag his tongue up the curve of her pale neck. He sucks gently at her earlobe, relishing in the shudder that runs through her.

“You smell like the forest,” he whispers in her ear. “Your cunt tastes like spring rain.”

He lets her taste, parting her lips and sliding his tongue around hers. The kiss deepens until he's thrusting his tongue between her lips, fucking her mouth as his fingers slide between her legs and tease her to another shaking climax.

Her breasts are next. He must spend close to an hour, tracing smaller and smaller circles with his fingers and tongue, sucking dark marks into her soft flesh, finally bringing her undone with just the draw of his mouth on those rosy peaks.

“If you could only see yourself, vhenan.” He rocks back on his heels. “Glistening like morning dew.” He pushes her slippery folds apart. “A man could drown in that sweet river.”

She's silent, breathing heavily through parted lips. When he slides the tip of his cock along her soaked slit she jerks.

“Is this what you want, vhenan? _Aman ara'mis.” Let me sheathe my blade in you._ She may not understand the words, but she moans at the unbridled desire in his voice. He grasps his length and teases her clit, circling the swollen pearl with the leaking head of his cock until she gasps and writhes.

“You don't want me inside you?”

 _“Sathan,”_ she cries. “Please, ma vhenan, please…”

He positions himself above her, sliding his cock back and forth between her thighs so his shaft slides wetly along her slit. “Tell me what I need to hear, vhenan.”

“I am yours,” she whimpers. _“Sathan, Fen'Harel, rosa’da’din in’em.”_

_Please, come inside me._

“Good, vhenan.” He strokes her damp hair back from her face. “Good.”

He slams into her, their cries of satisfaction mingling as he buries himself to the hilt inside her welcoming heat. Then both are lost in a frenzy of pleasure. He fucks her brutally hard and fast, agonisingly slow and gentle, fucks her until they are less thrusting together than writhing in wet synchronicity. Every inch of her body he claims, marking her soft skin with lewd purple kisses.

He fills her with his seed once, licks her thighs clean before doing it all over again. When she's limp and drained he unties her, only to lash her wrists high on the bedpost and thrust into her from behind with a feral snarl.

 _“Lasa ar’an alas’nira aron fen’en,”_ he growls, _let us dance as the wolves do._ And her pulls her back onto his cock, shaking her body like a storm. True to his promise his nails rake a path down her back and he soothes her reddened skin with his tongue, licking away the blood where it beads.

He twists her around and goes down on her again, spreading her wide with his fingers. Buries sharp teeth into her soft pale thighs, sucks hard at her clit until she keens, loud and high. She's a slippery mess when he fucks her one last time, whispering elvhen filth in her ears, grabbing soft handfuls of flesh and dragging her exhausted body up and down on his straining cock until finally he spills inside her, her broken wails echoing in his ears.

“Sleep.” It's a command, and she slumps forward, dangling from the ropes still tied around her slender wrists.

Solas eases her down onto the pillows and places a tender kiss on her forehead. He dips his hand into the slick between her thighs, smears their combined fluids over her breasts and belly.

Even bruised and soiled, there's something beautiful about her when she sleeps. He mounts her again, almost gently. Like the first stolen times in Haven, her head lolling to the side, her breasts swaying as he rocks into her, so sweet and vulnerable. Her breath slow and regular through softly parted lips even as his own grows ragged.

The ruined nightdress he leaves beside her on the pillow. Her body spreadeagled on top of the sheets, naked but for a few scraps of rope and the blindfold still around her eyes - when she wakes it will be in darkness, cold and aching and marked with blood and seed.

Let her remember then to whom she belongs.


	7. The Victor

Cullen can't comprehend her sudden distance. Then again, he couldn't quite comprehend why Aideen chose him in the first place, this ethereal creature giving herself to a clumsy, boorish man, a man whose withdrawal-addled judgement led to the end of everything she had known and loved. So when she draws away he hungers for her, but doesn't pry, doesn't chase.

In a way, she wishes he would.

 

“Solas.” Aideen is too thin, too pale, swamped by layers of too-large clothing that hide her neck and wrists from view. “I need to ask you a question.”

“Anything, lethallan.” He sets aside his quill, waits patiently for her to continue.

“How would I know, if I was possessed? An abomination?”

“You are not,” he says shortly.

“How would I know?” she repeats, wringing her hands.

“I would tell you.” He rises and closes the distance between them. “What makes you ask such questions, da'len?”

Her voice shakes. “I told you a long time ago about my dreams. About Fen'harel.”

Solas nods. “As I recall, I told you such dreams were natural in your circumstances. More so since...I am sorry, da'len...since the loss of your clan.”

“What if I told you he visited me when I was awake?” she whispers. “If he left marks on me? Then would you believe me visited by a demon?”

“What manner of marks, Inquisitor?” He feels a stirring of excitement, remembering the way her soft skin purpled beneath his hungry mouth. Picturing the rake of his nails down her back as he fucked her from behind.

“Scratches.” She looks away, reddening faintly. “Teeth marks. Love bites.”

“Da'len, you and Commander Cullen have been close. Are you sure…?”

“No!” she cries. “He never...he would never…”

“Could these be injuries you sustained in combat? Bruises can take time to appear - “

“It wasn't combat,” she hisses. “I woke with...with ropes on my wrists. And my ankles. My eyes bound. M-my nightdress in tatters. He said he was Fen'harel. He said he would show me that it w-wasn't a dream, and he d-did.”

“Shh, da'len.” He gathers her against him, painfully conscious of her little body trembling in the circle of his arms. “You think somebody came into your room?”

“I don't know,” she sobs.

“What did he do to you, this Fen'Harel?” Solas rubs her back in soothing circles. “Do you remember that?”

“I remember, but I can't...I _can't.”_ He holds her as she shakes with shame and fear, smells the rainforest scent of her hair on his shoulder. And when she turns her tear-stained face to his, he kisses her.

Her lips part in surprise, and his tongue delves between. Cupping the back of her neck he deepens the kiss, almost giddy at the thought of her in his arms, the thought of her coming undone under his touch, crying _Solas_ and not _Fen'Harel._

She stiffens.

When he draws back she's staring at him, blue eyes wide with hurt.

“That's not what I need, Solas,” she says sadly.

“Inquisitor, I - I am sorry.” He steps back, palms upraised. “I forgot myself.”

“I am sorry to have bothered you, Solas.” She hugs her oversized coat around herself. “We'll talk another time.”

 

He comes to her in the Fade and she lets him take her without protest, opening wide her legs, her mouth, anything he commands. He traces runes of pleasure into her skin, inside the folds of her cunt. He pulses his will inside her until her back bows. He makes her come until tears stream from her eyes. Makes her beg, plead for his cock, scream for her release. But beneath all is a seething resentment. When he looks in her blue eyes, hatred shines back at him.

“Are you mine, vhenan?” They lie naked in a glade, the light of spirits flickering around them. He toys idly with her breasts, strokes her soft mound. Every now and then a finger dips into her cleft and she shivers.

“I am yours,” she says dully.

“Do you love me, then?” He does his best to make the question sound lighthearted, half a jest, but she answers in all seriousness.

“No.” She stares up into the tree canopy, unblinking. “No, I don't believe I do.”

“What more do you ask of me?” His caresses become deeper, more insistent. “Do I not satisfy you?”

“I ask...only what I asked from the beginning, Fen'Harel.” Her thighs part, inviting his fingers deeper. “To be free of you.”

“You wish to be with your shemlen, then?” His fingers curl just inside her entrance, pushing hard at a spot that makes her pant and whine. “Could he make you feel like this?”

Her eyes squeeze closed. “Better,” she gasps. “Better, because he loved me. And I loved him.”

He drags her into his lap and spears her on his cock, gripping her chin to keep her eyes on his face. “Ar lath ma,” he snarls.

“You don't.” There's no accusation in her tone, only a sad resignation. “You don't know how.”

Suddenly he can't look in her eyes any longer. He pulls her face to his shoulder, drags her hips hard against him as he fucks her.

Because it's not love he's been missing from her, he knows, or even respect. What he craves, he realises with shame, is her worship.

And so is wisdom turned to pride. With cock and fingers he brings her to a shattering peak but it's not enough. It will never be enough.

 

For his own protection, she must stay away from Cullen. But his voice, his gaze, his mere presence make her helplessly wet. When his fingers brush hers over a missive, there's a sharp rush of heat to her cunt and she's certain he must feel the shiver that runs through her.

Perhaps he does, because slowly, tentatively, he finds ways to be close to her. Lingering glances lead to urgent, stolen kisses, lead to Cullen fingering her roughly in the corridor outside the war room, her hands clutched tight in his mantle as the frantic movement of his wrist sends her tumbling over the edge.

“I'm sorry,” he gasps afterwards. “I shouldn't...you deserve better, my lady.”

“Don't be sorry.” She runs trembling fingers over his lips. “It was wonderful.”

“Aideen.” Her name in that low voice he keeps for her alone is enough to make her knees buckle.

“We can't do it again, Cullen.” The adoration in his steady gaze makes her heart ache. “We can't. I can't tell you why.”

 _We can't,_ is what she thinks the night she surprises him in his office, kneels between his legs and sucks his cock until he cries to his Maker.

_We can't._

But they can't stop.

 

“This is your last warning, _ma’haurasha.”_ He comes to her again in the waking world and takes her on hands and knees, channeling his rage and jealousy into thrusts that shake the heavy bedframe. He pulls her hair until it strains at the roots, cruelly pinches her nipples until she is reduced to hoarse gasps. “Defy me again in this, and there will be consequences.”

When she falls into exhausted sleep he straddles her chest, squeezes her breasts together and fucks the tight channel they create until he paints her throat in milky jets. They glisten like the jewelled collars of slaves in lost Arlathan, and he knows he has become the thing he hated.

 

Aideen lingers in the war room after her advisors have gone, tracing the map with light fingers. Reaches over to the sea towards the Free Marches, the forests and plains she once called home.

Where is home when this is over, she wonders? Can she remain in Skyhold? Trapped in an endless nightmare of relentless pleasure, bound forever to the whims of Fen'Harel? She could not have betrayed her people more completely.

The door closes, and she glances up.

“Cullen.” She smiles wanly. “I did not hear you enter.”

“My apologies if I startled you, Inquisitor. I forgot some papers.” Crossing the room to retrieve them, his eyes are drawn to the map, her hand resting near Wycome.

“Aideen.” Her eyes flutter closed at the soft, low timbre of his voice. “I am sorry for my part in what happened.”

“You are not to blame, Cullen.” She feels him at her back, solid and comforting. “It is just one more reason to stop the Venatori.”

His warm breath tickles her ear. “I would spend a lifetime making it up to you, my love.”

There's a feeling of the inevitable in the way she presses back against him, his hands reaching around to undo the clasps of her tunic. Gloves peeled away and discarded, warm hands on her breasts, working her nipples to tight peaks through the fabric of her shift.

“Say the word.” His voice shakes with pent-up longing. “I will stop, I swear it.” He kisses the back of her neck and she feels she might melt under his touch.

“Don't stop,” she whispers.

His gentle hands ease her leggings and smallclothes down, fingers sliding between her legs to feel the wetness gathering there. “Maker, but you're perfect.” There's the clink of a buckle before he eases into her willing heat with a gasp. “Perfect.”

Forget Fen'Harel, forget Corypheus, forget everything but the agonising sweetness of his cock sliding inside her. When she's close his fingers seek out her clit, pressing hard against the slick nub until she buckles, crying out in unadulterated pleasure.

“I love you,” she gasps. Pressing back against him, she wants to take every inch, milk every drop. “Forgive me.”

“Forgive what, my love?” His strong arms surround her, warm lips pressed to her neck. “Talk to me, Aideen. You can tell me anything.”

“Just stay here for a moment, like this.” If he holds her now, his arms around her and his spent cock still nestled between her thighs, if they're very still, very quiet, perhaps the Dread Wolf won't catch their scent.

 

Solas seethes. He knows what they’ve done, he can smell the mingled sweat and sex, can feel the obscene echoes of their joining in the Fade. But for once the stones of Skyhold are silent. So it has come to this, his vhenan betraying him and his own fortress turned against him, taking her side.

The younger Fen’Harel might have razed the walls in petulant fury, scorched the earth until there was no trace of the castle to be seen. Banished her human lover to the farthest corner of the Fade and taken her in the ashes.

He can’t say he’s not tempted.

Instead he lurks in the Fade, pacing, biding his time until she sleeps. He finds her in the ruined shell of a tower, rubble and broken statues scattered about her feet.

“I have waited for you, _da’ise.”_ He strips away her clothing until she stands before him naked and defiant. “Is there anything you would tell me?”

Her jaw clenches and she stares straight ahead, silent.

“As you wish it.” A gesture, and she’s suspended inches from the ground, shackles at her wrists and ankles spreading her body in a cross. “I warned you, da’len.”

Fen'Harel runs his fingers along her jaw and down her neck. Caresses her breasts before he takes her nipples between thumb and fingers.

When the first jolt of lightning hits she arches without a sound, her body spasming as the electricity runs through it. “You feel my displeasure, _ma’haurasha._ This could have been avoided.” He ceases but he knows the pain still lingers - he can see the muscles jump and twitch beneath her skin. She’s breathing heavily through her nose, pure hatred shining from her eyes. “It was your decision to whore yourself to the shemlen.” He forces a finger inside her unprepared cunt. “Now you face the consequences. Do you think you won’t scream? You will.”

Scream she does, pulling against the shackles until her wrists are slick with blood, convulsing as his lightning pulses inside her. “I take no pleasure in this.” He pulls her close for a savage kiss as he fires sparks against her clit and she writhes in pain.

“How did he take you?” She would spit curses at him, he knows, if she were capable of speech. But when she opens her mouth all that comes out is a ragged sob. “Let me guess.” He ruts against her, an obscene parody of lovemaking. Fondles her suspended body, occasionally drawing a pained cry from her when lighting skitters over her skin. “Like this.” Kisses her neck, drags her hips against him as he pushes into her from behind. It’s fast, brutal, his hips slapping against her flesh as he drives into her. Each shock from his fingers makes her clench around him, each ragged scream spurs him on. When the end comes it’s oddly unsatisfying, and this only makes him want to punish her more.

The blood from her wrists runs down her skin in rivulets, mingling with the seed on her legs. If this were not the Fade her heart would have given out a thousand times by now, but even dulled with pain her blue eyes still hold a spark of rebellion.

“Say you love me, vhenan.” He wipes the tears from her cheeks. “Tell me you love me, and all this will end.”

She can barely lift her head, much less speak. But when he lifts her chin there it is - a barely perceptible head shake. _No._

Now she discovers true pain. Burning electricity arcs through her continuously and she screams and screams, screams until no sound comes out. And something new - with each scream the anchor flares, brighter and brighter, green energy shooting down her arm. He watches with fascination as it sparks and flickers.

Until with an effort she uncurls her fingers and a blast of power hits him full in the chest, sending him flying to the ground.

_Impossible. The mark is mine. It answers to me._

As he lies there shocked, the fog begins to clear from her eyes. She flexes her fingers, and the shackle holding her left wrist disintegrates into a million floating pieces. The Fade envelops her like water, flowing over her abused flesh and leaving perfect unmarked skin in its wake.

The orb held most of his power. In his weakened state, if she is able to wield it against him he will be truly vulnerable. In desperation he throws a veil strike in her direction, only to have the backlash hit him like a wall and send him crashing against a broken pedestal.

“Fen’Harel.” She stands straight and healed, her arm flickering with stolen magic. “You will not touch me again.”

“That does not belong to you,” he snarls, and she smiles.

“You’re not the first to say so.” For the first time he sees her look at the anchor with something like affection. That expression disappears when she turns back to him. “But I have it now. And if you threaten me, or anyone close to me again, I will use it to strip the flesh from your bones and scatter it to the far reaches of the Fade, god or no.”

“You’re mine.” His voice sounds weak in his ears. All that was once his, she has turned against him. _You betrayed yourself, Fen’Harel,_ says a voice deep in the back of his mind. _You turned against everything you stood for out of greed, lust and pride. Solas, indeed._

“No.” She is calm, serene even. She has never been more beautiful. “Now go. If I see you again, one of us will die. And I intend it to be you.”

With a final growl of rage, he turns tail and flees.

 

Aideen wakes before dawn, feeling a lightness she hasn't known in the longest time. She pauses only long enough to throw a blanket around her shoulders before hurrying to the Commander's tower, sheds even that before she scales the ladder to where he sleeps.

"Cullen, wake up!" When he finally focuses on her she grins, her eyes fever-bright. "You're safe."

"Aideen?" He sits up groggily, shaking his head. "Why wouldn't I be safe?"

"It doesn't matter." Without another word she climbs on top of him, helping his eager fingers to peel away her nightdress then he's kissing her mouth, her neck, her breasts and without fear she guides him home inside her. They cling to each other, all grasping fingers and warm, sliding lips and the soft, beautiful slap of skin on skin. And after they come undone, crying each other's names like prayer, she falls asleep in his arms and they're finally at peace.

 

Solas watches the Inquisitor and the Commander, biding his time. He does not need the treacherous stones of Skyhold to tell him how they spend their nights. Each smile, each touch, screams of their intimacy. He needs but close his eyes to see those pale thighs parting, hear her moans and whimpers and the wails of ecstasy that should have been his alone. In the safety of Cullen’s attic room she whores herself to him and Solas can only rage inside, pumping into his fist with increasing desperation.

They will pay. He will reclaim the power of the orb and she will be at his side when the world is restored. He will make her flay her lover alive and take her while she is still covered in his blood. He will have her on her knees, sucking his cock before his assembled armies. He will parade her naked through the streets of restored Arlathan, sit her on his lap on his high throne and bare her cunt to the court, finger her until she begs for release. He will fuck her for all to see, again and again, and she will worship him as she should.

Soon, Solas promises himself. Soon, his vhenan will be his again, body and soul.


End file.
